


Straight In The ❤

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anthea (Sherlock) is the Best PA, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Sherlock Holmes, Fluff and Angst, Idiots in Love, Injury, M/M, Poor Sherlock Holmes, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:34:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22159450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Sherlock has got shot and someone died. Mycroft is furious about it and he shows it clearly. And then he finds out whom Sherlock wanted to protect and things change forever.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes
Comments: 18
Kudos: 96





	Straight In The ❤

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlytherinsDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/gifts).



**St. Bart’s Hospital**

With every step he walks faster. His hands ball into fists. His pulse is elevated. When he pushes the door open, his heart is racing. With wrath.

“What did you do, Sherlock?” he rasps out, taking in the sight of the ghostly pale detective in the large hospital bed. Everything is white – the walls, the sheets, the bandage, his face. St. Bart’s. Sherlock's second home. Not in the morgue though. But he’s working on that, isn’t he?

Sherlock doesn’t answer. His bottom lip looks as if he had been gnawing at it for half an hour. There are traces of blood and they have nothing to do with his injury.

Mycroft shakes his head. “Lucky, this time, huh? Just a graze wound. Will hurt for a few days. Well, the other guy doesn’t have such problems as he’s dead. Are you proud of yourself?”

Sherlock says nothing. He avoids looking at him.

Mycroft paces the room, his hand clamped around his umbrella. “For whom did you kill this time? Oh, let me guess – John Watson. An old enemy of his dear late wife? How convenient that it happened in a street without surveillance. At least not in front of agents like last time. And no fingerprints than his own on his gun. Well, you always wear gloves outside. The police are buying your stupid story – he tried to rob you and shot you, and then he conveniently shot himself. A small street criminal. We both know this story stinks. He would just have run off – no way he committed suicide. What was this about? A case? Are you too lazy to solve them now? Did you think, _‘Oh, it worked fine with killing Magnussen so why not shoot this unimportant little man, too? Nobody will miss him anyway…’_ ” ‘Slick’ Steve Sallis. Did not work a day in his life. No family. Nobody who will urge the police to question his death.

He darts forward and feels satisfied to see Sherlock flinch. “He did fire at you first though. The angle says you couldn’t have done it yourself. How could you let that happen? You are not bulletproof, Sherlock. You should know this; you almost died of a shot wound before. This time it was just the shoulder, hardly more than a scratch. What will it be next time? Your silly head?” Mycroft snorted. “You are playing with fire, little brother. The game you played with Eurus – it could have backfired, quite literally. You’re not a detective anymore. You’re a gambler, and your wager is your own life. And for what? Saving the lives of your stupid friends. I have enough, Sherlock. It’s two in the morning and I have a day full of meetings ahead of me. And then your friend Lestrade calls me to let me know you’ve been shot. Again. Stop it, Sherlock. Just stop it.” He stops talking, staring down at his brother.

As broad in the shoulders as he has become over the past years – he looks like a fragile little boy with his bandage and his ashen face. He has not said a single word since Mycroft has come in. His irritating blue-green eyes are lifeless.

“Why didn’t you bring your dear John Watson to the scene this time? Want to hide that you killed for him again?” How can Sherlock still be friends with this man? Who treated him so awfully after all Sherlock had risked and done for him? And now he took another life for him. Mycroft has no doubt it was about the awful little man once more.

Sherlock keeps silent. His only movement is the one of his fingers, rubbing against each other.

“What’s the matter – you turned mute?” Mycroft asks with a venom in his voice that startles himself.

Sherlock bites his lip once more. “No,” he whispers. It’s all he says.

Mycroft turns to leave. “Grow up, Sherlock. Solve your problems in other ways or I swear you’ll find yourself in Sherrinford one day, too. But you like to be there anyway, playing the violin with our dear sister. Perhaps you two have more in common than I thought after all. So if you don’t manage to get killed anyway, you might join her very soon.” And with this he leaves without another look at his little brother, the murderer.

**The Cabinet Office**

He drags himself into his office and falls into his chair. He closes his eyes. How is he going to get through this day? It’s eight, the next meeting will take place in half an hour. And he is not prepared for it at all.

When Mycroft returned to his house, it was three am. And he did not sleep for a single minute. There was so much… frustration and exasperation in him. He just doesn’t get it. He has sworn to himself to always protect his little brother, but how is he supposed to protect him from his own bad decisions? The drugs seemed to bad. Compared to the messes Sherlock brings himself in these days, they were harmless…

Anthea, wearing a black trouser suit with a red blouse, brings him coffee, black and strong, without asking.

“Thank you. I want you to find out which case my menace of a little brother was involved in last night.” He can trust her. Unconditionally.

He looks up to her when a folder lands on his desk.

“I took care of it already, sir,” she says. “You might find it very interesting.”

Mycroft reads, and with every word he gets paler. A name has immediately caught his attention. Jeremy Furrington. The son of the late Lord Furrington. The man Mycroft had a stern conversation with about certain failures. The man who used his gun on himself afterwards.

He closes his eyes again and doesn’t open them when Anthea speaks. “Seems the lord’s son contacted ‘Slick’ Steve quite often after his father’s suicide. You reckon that if they search Slick’s ruin of a house, they will find some information about you? Well, you don’t have to. I did it. Paid it a visit. Here it is.”

She is not just the ‘tea lady’. She is an agent herself. The one he trusts the most. Perhaps she is the person he trusts the most in this world.

Mycroft opens a dossier in a crumpled paper folder. There is not that much information about him. But they know where he lives and that he lives alone. When would he have got a visit from Slick? With the gun? Why had Sherlock not come to him? How could he have have even known about this? Why has he not said a word when Mycroft insulted him last night? Well, why should he… Mycroft did _all_ the talking… Every word he said feels like acid to his own soul. And he can’t even imagine the impact it must have had on his brother. He can feel there is more to this. Something… scary? Amazing? Whatever it is – knowing he has hurt his brother for all the wrong reasons makes him sick with regret and shame.

He gets up. “Cancel my meeting with...” He stops when Anthea raises her eyebrows. “Okay. You did already. I’ll go to the hospital.”

She shakes her head. “No use. He has returned to Baker Street half an hour ago.” Her tone says _‘and you should go there pronto.’_

“Expect a considerable rise next month,” he mumbles when he grabs his umbrella.

Anthea smiles.

**221b Baker Street**

Mycroft finds himself pacing in front of the house in which Sherlock and Mrs Hudson live. The doctor and his daughter have not yet moved back in. Who knows if they ever will. The flat has been repaired after Eurus’ patience grenade but it is probably not big enough for three people.

He is still stupidly debating with himself whether he should use the doorbell or his key when he hears a familiar voice from behind.

“Mr Holmes? What are you doing here?”

Mrs Hudson sounds displeased. Nothing new here. She always does when she speaks with him. He hasn't forgotten about the ‘reptile’…

“Visiting my brother.”

“To give him a hard time? He doesn’t need it. He suffers enough already.”

Mycroft feels defensive. “He should have stayed in the hospital if he is…”

“I'm not talking about the wound, Mr Holmes!” hisses the old lady. “He had it much worse. But he is feeling very sad. Do you have any idea why?”

He doesn't feel the slightest wish to discuss this with her. But he must give her something or she won't let him in. It is her house after all. Of course he could force his way in but he is not in any mood to take to such measures. It would not be helpful at all. He forces himself to take to a calm tone and even give her a brief smile. “I only want to look after my brother. I'm not here to make his life more miserable.”

Her look clearly says, _‘Since when?’_ but she nods. “I’ve got some groceries for him. You can take them upstairs. And I'll make tea.”

“I will. And I will take care of the tea.”

She gives him a doubtful look but she finally lets him into the house. He has never felt so insecure and meek when he entered it.

*****

“Hello, Sherlock.” His voice sounds strange to his own ears. A forced cheerfulness in his tone. Probably he sounds completely ridiculous to Sherlock.

But his brother just watches him with an indescribable expression. “Bringing the groceries?” He is dressed in black pyjamas and a matching robe, sitting in his usual chair.

“Yes. Mrs Hudson...”

Sherlock nods. “I heard you. Tea is ready.”

Only now Mycroft sees two mugs on the table between the two chairs of the detective and his absent Doctor Watson. “I wanted to...” He breaks off.

Sherlock shrugs and grimaces at once. Not a good idea with an injured shoulder… “I managed.”

“Still… Well, I guess I should store this in the kitchen.”

Sherlock nods. “You know where it is. Thank you.”

Mycroft is grateful he has something to do before facing the inevitable – an overdue apology. And something more that scares him to death, more than Eurus’ games could ever have.

Too soon the cheese and eggs are stored in a, surprisingly neat and body-part-free, fridge. The tea is in a cupboard and so are the noodles and the other dry stuff.

He takes a deep breath and returns to the living room. Sherlock is looking at him silently and gestures at John’s chair when Mycroft makes no attempt at sitting down.

Mycroft nods and drops into the chair. When has John been here last? Does Sherlock miss him? “How is your shoulder?” he asks instead.

“Okay. Stings a bit. Will take today off.”

Mycroft bites his lip. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I can’t even say how sorry I am.”

Sherlock smiles, to his surprise. “You were right. I did kill him or better made him kill himself. And I didn’t do it for myself.”

“Why? Why did you not just tell me about the threat?”

“I… I had to be fast. I lured him there. But I wasn’t convincing enough. So he shot at me and then… I took out my own gun, yes, I have one now, and told him if he doesn’t shoot himself, I’d shoot him to pieces, starting with his feet.”

Mycroft is speechless for a moment. “You should have come to me,” he insists. “I wouldn’t have wanted you to kill for me, put your life at risk!” It doesn’t make Sherlock's actions any better. Even worse, actually. And still he feels deeply touched by them.

“I know. I just didn’t...” Sherlock breaks off, and Mycroft knows they have reached a point of no return.

“You didn’t want me to know.”

“Right.” Sherlock lowers his head.

“To know what? That you care?” He know he’s cruel. But he needs Sherlock to speak it out to believe it.

“Yes.” Sherlock’s voice is almost inaudible.

He should have known it. Sherlock did not just save John in Sherrinford. And he did not point this gun at himself because he has a death wish. Or likes to play games, no matter how dangerous they are. He saved him, too. “Care how?”

“Please, brother, just let it rest,” Sherlock pleads.

Mycroft nods. His long fingers entwine with each other. “Let me just tell you a story, Sherlock. About a man with a younger brother.” Where has this even come from? But it seems like the only possibility now.

Sherlock looks up, looking distressed but also… hopeful? “Okay,” he whispers.

“They had a… difficult relationship when they grew older after being very close when the younger brother was a child. Things happened that made him change from being open and cheerful to… introverted and dark. It was all the older brother’s fault of course.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Sherlock mumbled. “It was little sister’s fault.”

“Well, the younger boy did not know that as he unconsciously chose to forget about her. Anyway… They grew older and things got more difficult by the hour. There were drugs and rebellion and dangerous behaviour.”

Sherlock nods. “I’m getting the picture.”

Now he sounds hopeless again, and Mycroft knows he has to come to the point quickly now. He is not about to bash Sherlock again. He takes a deep breath once more. “But then the older brother realised that he has a problem he had never imagined. His feelings for his sibling were strong. They had always been, and nothing changed this. But the feelings changed in their nature.”

Sherlock gasps and stares at him, and Mycroft can almost see his brain working. There is disbelief in his eyes but it slowly vanishes when Mycroft returns the look with all the sincerity this situation asks for. No shields. No pretending. No lies.

“He realised that he has, basically, fallen in love with his little brother. It made him feel horrible, naturally. The little brother who treats him like his worst enemy? It’s hopeless and wrong and he did his best to beat those feelings down. He treated his brother equally nastily and so their relationship got even worse over the following years but at least his feelings were safe from being revealed. The younger brother found friends but also went through hell because of them. The older one saw it with despair, and yes, a huge amount of jealousy, but there was nothing he could do. He knew his brother wouldn’t want him to interfere. He did what he could when a criminal network had to be taken down and the younger man had to disappear, letting his friends believe he was dead. When he came back, nobody’s life got any easier. He got hurt, almost killed, and still vowed to protect his unworthy friends.” He can see Sherlock wince but the detective stays silent, hanging at his lips. “And then… the East Wind came up and blew their lives up. And now the older brother knows he should have seen that his… beloved little brother feels more for him than he had ever dared hope for.” He reaches out with his hand. “And now he both feels like an idiot for missing this truth for ages and excited and humble for maybe having a chance to make it better from now on and set things in motion that will make both of them happy.”

Sherlock is crying now. Silently. His long, black lashes are thick with tears. But he too reaches out with his hand, on the uninjured side, and takes Mycroft's. “Yes. Yes, he’ll have this chance. And the little brother feels like a total moron to have treated the older one like shit. To not see what he’s felt for him for so long. About as long as he’s been in love, too.”

Sherlock gets up, still holding Mycroft's hand, and gestures him to go to the sofa with him. They sit down next to each other, looking at one another, and Mycroft's arm carefully sneaks around Sherlock's shoulders, avoiding touching the bandaged wound but eager to hold him, and Sherlock nuzzles his face against his neck before looking up again.

And ever so tenderly, Mycroft's lips touches his.

It’s neither the time nor the place – a work day morning in Sherlock’s flat with his landlady only a flat away, but Mycroft allows the kiss to deepen. He allows himself to get drunk on Sherlock's sweet taste, sweeter even than he had dreamt all those years ago before he had managed to ban these desires into the depths of his soul, where they poisoned him slowly but mercilessly over those years of envying and even hating Sherlock's mostly undeserving friends for getting the attention Sherlock had never given him. Now they have bloomed in his chest, making his heart swell with a love even stronger for being contained and despised for so long.

When they finally part after exploring each other’s mouth thoroughly, with hands touching the other one’s face with the tenderness of butterflies, Sherlock's eyes are even wetter, but he is smiling.

“We’re both idiots, huh?”

Mycroft nods. “The biggest idiots in history. What do you say – shall we try to find out if we can be smart again? Together?”

“Together,” Sherlock says, “is the best word I’ve heard for years.”

Mycroft can only agree. “And Sherlock – you know what I told you about sentiment.”

“Oh yes. Your mantra makes so much more sense now. Not that it did make any sense...”

Mycroft knows exactly what he means. If he’d just had the courage… But there is no use in regrets. “Sentiment is fine from now on. It will even be required.”

“No problem. I love you, Mycroft.”

There it is. The biggest sentiment, right away. Mycroft smiles and lifts Sherlock's hand to press a playful kiss on it. “I love you, too. I admire you. Adore you. And I can’t wait for your shoulder to heal so I can show you.” Is he the same man who had thrown horrible insults at Sherlock’s head just hours ago? No. He is a man who has been redeemed from guilt and self-loathing. Willing to express all the feelings he has not allowed for all this time.

“I can’t wait,” Sherlock assures him. “I know you have to go back to work. But can I have another kiss?”

“You absolutely can.”

*****

When Mycroft Holmes returns to the office an hour later, he has missed two important meetings. His assistant has found believable excuses for him and told a few very posh people to shut their mouths. When she sees her boss coming in, she can just so refrain from fist-pumping the air. It really was about time!

“Tea, sir?”

“I never say no to tea, Anthea.”

 _And thank God he also did not say no to his brother_ , she thinks when she gets up, grinning, and he catches her look and grins back, and she knows happy times are waiting for the smart, slow Holmes brothers.

The End


End file.
